


For your birth be damned, love, but do not leave

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Half-Sibling Incest, Illustrated, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor seeks Finarfin to cool his blood; achieves the opposite effect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For your birth be damned, love, but do not leave

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This is a collab that has been in the works with [Silje](http://cygnete.tumblr.com/) for a while now, and which I am so excited to finally post!

“THE VALAR CURSE EVERY CHILD OF INDIS.”

Fëanáro descended like a black flame, dark hair streaming behind him, grey eyes snapping like liquid mercury, boots grinding dust into the white carpets.

Arafinwë, who was sitting at his desk with a swan quill in his hand as he worked on some correspondence to Alqualondë, looked up and blinked.

“I’m sorry, do you have the wrong address?”

Fëanaro stalked across the room and slammed his fists onto Arafinwë’s desk, causing an inkwell to overturn. 

Arafinwë caught it before it could ruin his letter, and gazed, curious but unruffled, at his half-brother. “You may have the wrong child of Indis here. I am not the one who will rage back at you, remember. You are doubtless looking for Nolofinwë, you know him, tall, dark-haired, stubborn chin…”

“Oh, I have seen Nolofinwë, yes, I have _talked_ to Nolofinwë, well enough.” Fëanáro laughed, a wild and fey sound. “I have come here to slap you for your ill-fortune in sharing even a drop of blood with that ingrate.”

“That seems unnecessary,” said Arafinwë, mildly. “And besides, you share more than a drop of blood with him as well.”

“IT IS THE TYPE OF BLOOD THAT MATTERS.” Fëanáro seemed to half realize how ridiculous he sounded, for he showed in what a lesser man would be termed a flush.

“Oh, indeed.” Arafinwë raised his chin, considering. Then he leaned forward slightly. “Very well then, I’m ready.”

 Fëanáro stared at him. “What?”

“I am prepared, I have steeled myself. Do it.”

“Do what?”

“Slap me.”

Fëanáro took a step back. “You are utterly ridiculous.”

“Oh yes, that’s me. I may not storm uninvited into studies not my own, threatening violence for the misfortune of sharing genetic material, but yes, I am the ridiculous one here.” Despite his words, Arafinwë’s voice held absolutely no sarcasm.

As ever, Fëanáro found it impossible to hold onto his anger in the face of Arafinwë’s imperturbable sincerity. Despite himself, he laughed. “Valar, you are impossible.”

“And yet still I go unslapped.” Arafinwë contrived to look aggrieved. “I may be impossible, but I cannot even rouse you to the same passions my dear brother does. How is this just?”

“He has a way about him that you lack.”

Arafinwë sighed. “Ah, a blade to the heart. Coming up second to my brother once again! I am not half as slappable; alas, I feel quite robbed.”

Fëanáro laughed again, dangerously, and started to look thunderous once more. “Hah, you speak to me of feeling robbed? You speak to me of _theft_ , of blades to the heart? When I – ”

“Yes, quite.” Arafinwë did not let him finish. He rose from behind his desk, as tall as his brother, and taller than his half-brother. “Let us go for a walk, dear Fëanáro.”

“Eh?”

Arafinwë strode out from behind his desk, lean and white-clad, carelessly sweeping his long, unbraided hair into a tail that hung over one shoulder. “Come. The birds are nesting, and it is a glorious time of year.”

He held out an arm, and Fëanáro, momentarily dumbstruck, shook his head, and then linked his own arm through it.

They walked by the ponds that dotted Arafinwë’s property, alive at this time of year with early lily pads and resonant with the singing of tiny frogs. Fëanáro worked hard to hold on to his temper, to locate the incandescent rage that had fueled him from his encounter with Nolofinwë and driven him down the long road to Arafinwë’s house.

But then, why had he sought out Arafinwë, if not to diffuse his anger?

He could tell himself it was true fury that had driven him there, to curse as many members of the House of Indis as possible, but were that the case, he would have stayed where he was and bellowed at Nolofinwë some more – and at Írimë, who had come upon their argument and who had kicked Fëanáro in the shins for a particularly barbed insult. No, he had sought out Arafinwë, gentle, soft-spoken Arafinwë, who dressed in white and gold and who loved bird-watching and fine wine, and who stayed out of his siblings’ quarrels; Arafinwë, whom Fëanáro could easily dismiss as a hopelessly weak personality, were it not patently and obviously untrue.

Arafinwë was pacing at his side now, his face quite serene in Laurelin’s light, a light that favored his features, Fëanáro thought. His arm was still linked through Fëanáro’s, his steps measured and silent, but he hummed, tunefully, under his breath.

Why had Fëanáro sought him out?

He thought of his sons, and of his house, and the ferocious tension that swelled its walls. He thought of his eldest half-brother, and his anger, his feeling of injustice and ill-use, and he searched for the flame of his righteous fury, but couldn’t, at this moment ignite it.

He thought of his empty bed.

He thought of Nerdanel, long gone, a fact – he could admit this, in the solitude of his own mind – that was entirely his own doing. He thought of Nerdanel and how much he longed for her wisdom and guidance. And he thought of the tall, golden figure at his side.

“I am no replacement for her,” a quiet voice broke in at his thoughts, and Fëanáro realized with a burst of annoyance that his mind was not such a place of solitude after all, in this one’s presence. “As you are no replacement for my own dear friend and partner, who has followed her heart away from my bed as well – though not, I think, for the same reasons as Nerdanel. No, I am no replacement. I do not have her wisdom, nor her understanding of you. Perhaps if I did,” Arafinwë’s voice was cool, thoughtful, “I would leave, too.”

“But you have not.” Fëanáro turned then to face him, and their arms slid apart. They stayed loosely touching, at the fingertips. “You have not left. You have not ordered me away.”

“No.” Arafinwë reached out with his free hand to brush a dark lock of hair from Fëanáro’s eyes. His fingers lingered on the sharp line of Fëanáro’s cheekbone, and Fëanáro, almost imperceptibly, leaned into his touch. “No, I have not.”

“Will you?” Fëanáro refused to acknowledge the petulance in the question, but he knew it was there.

“I do not know.” Arafinwë’s fingers trailed down Fëanáro’s face, and alighted on his lips.

There was nothing to say to this, now, and so Fëanáro did not speak, but raised his arms to wrap them tight around Arafinwë’s waist. Arafinwë let out a little sigh, a breeze against Fëanáro’s lips, and then both of his hands were in Fëanáro’s hair. Their mouths met, at once tender and hungry and wary, until Arafinwë made a small sound, and then all Fëanáro knew was hunger.

 

This was the hunger he had known from the first time he had touched Arafinwë, though their first kiss had merely been an attempt at provocation, an attempt to enrage that placid figure, who always refused to rise to passion. 

 _I’ll show you passion,_  he had thought that first time, with that first kiss. But instead, Arafinwë had held onto him and kissed him back with a hunger that shocked Fëanáro, taken him utterly by surprise, made him realize - _I underestimated you._

_And I underestimated your capacity for sin._

It was not a mistake he would make twice.

_How long have you wanted me, little half-brother? How long have you wanted me to pay attention to you with as much passion as I give Nolofinwë? But you want a different kind of passion..._

It was a conceited thought to be sure, swollen with the surety that he was wanted, but then, Fëanáro had never yet been proven wrong on this front. And the thought that fair Arafinwë had the capacity for greed - the greed to possess - had made Fëanáro _ravenous_  for him. 

That hunger had yet to abate, and Fëanáro was always more likely to stoke a fire than bank it.

 

They kissed, long and slow and open-mouthed, until the hunger was too much for Fëanáro, and he growled, low in his throat. There was nothing in him that inclined him to kneel, except for when Arafinwë was beneath his lips and under his hands and inflaming him so that all he desired was to fall to his knees and consume him, take his calm and his beauty and devour it, swallow it down that it might quench some of that blazing, unending, insatiable thirst within him. But even as he tugged at Arafinwë’s pearl beaded belt, his brown, fire-scarred and calloused hands pleasingly rough against Arafinwë’s unmarred silks, his brother forestalled him.

“No,” he said, catching Fëanáro by the elbows as he made to sink down. “No, not here, dear one.”

Fëanáro let out an angry breath, and whether it was at being rebuffed or at Arafinwë’s maddening tenderness, he couldn’t say. “I shall not wait long,” he growled, instead of biting the endearment from Arafinwë’s lips, as he wished to. “I want to have you _now_.”

“Impatient,” said Arafinwë, fondly, and brushed his hand over Fëanáro’s hair in what Fëanáro deemed an overly affectionate gesture. He pushed Arafinwë’s hand away and leveled a glare at him before grabbing him close once more, seizing his lips in a bruising kiss.

“Not here,” Arafinwë whispered after a while, breathless now, and Fëanáro felt a surge of satisfaction at the flush on his cheeks.

“Where, then?” He smiled in the way he knew stirred his half-brother, a teasing, dangerous smile. He was rewarded with a slow intake of breath as Arafinwë’s eyes darkened, pupils widening with desire. “There is a copse nearby. I can take you on the soft grass there, lay you down by the feet of the young trees and watch you spill yourself onto the moss in the sight of those damn irises you love so much, bind you by your hair to the rowan boughs, whisper you hard again and – ”

“No,” said Arafinwë, though the word came out roughened by want. He looked half amused, even as his fingers dug painfully into Fëanáro’s arms and his hips arched forward almost unconsciously. “The grass stains will not come easily from these robes.”

Fëanáro made an impatient gesture and pulled Arafinwë against him, his hand gripping tauntingly at the curve of Arafinwë’s buttocks beneath his robes. “Then I shall lay you bare before I lay you down,” he whispered. “And the grass will stain only your skin, you prim, fastidious, asinine – ”

  

“Oh, how you sweet-talk me,” said Arafinwë, laughing, and kissed Fëanáro once more before pulling away. The aforementioned irises dipped in a light breeze as if dropping their gazes from the tableau before them. “Come, brother mine, my dear one, my flame. My bed is not far.”

Not far, but it was not as easy nor as swift to reach Arafinwë’s chambers as Fëanáro would have liked. There was first the necessity of drawing aside lest they be seen by Arafinwë’s eldest, who was pacing the wide white halls of the house, engrossed in some scroll so long that it dragged on the floor as he read. Fëanáro thought he caught a flicker of eyes – as blue as Arafinwë’s, and as subtly shrewd – in their direction as they slipped past in the shadows, but he cared little for what Arafinwë’s golden spawn thought of him, or his business with their father.

Then a clearly oblivious and idiotic servant interrupted their progress, approaching Arafinwë with barely a glance at Fëanáro and nattering on about menial household concerns until Arafinwë, glancing at Fëanáro’s clenched fists, gently dismissed the servant and thus prevented unseemly violence on his marble floors.

“I commend your patience,” he said lightly, as they finally drew near to his chambers, the hallway blessedly empty. “You are uncharacteristically restrained despite unpardonable delays, and I – ”

“Restrained? I’ll show you restrained.” Fëanáro caught Arafinwë hard around the waist and drove him back against the wall, kissing him viciously not on the lips, but on the sensitive skin of his throat, the spot he knew could make Arafinwë lose his composure completely, could make him beg and press hard against Fëanáro’s thigh. His hand found its way beneath Arafinwë’s robes and once more he indulged himself in seizing a handful of Arafinwë’s buttocks and squeezing.

Arafinwë made a choked off sound and tugged fruitlessly at Fëanáro’s clothes. “ _Fëanáro_. Please. My door is just there, if you could but make it through…”

Fëanáro tormented him a moment longer, pinning him still against the wall and wedging a thigh between Arafinwë’s legs, sucking hard enough at his throat to leave a mark, a smug rebuke against that pale skin. “Very well,” he said finally, releasing Arafinwë who stayed, panting slightly, collapsed against the wall. “Into your bed chambers then.” And he held out a courtly arm, a polite gesture entirely undermined by the sharp satisfaction of his smile.

Arafinwë’s bed was a luxurious expanse of white and silk, its canopy hung with thin, opaque drapes tied back with beaded bands. The breeze came in through the tall, arched windows, making the curtains dance and setting the beads clicking. Fëanáro pushed Arafinwë down onto this indulgence of a bed, tsking mockingly as he did.

“My dear, pampered, impractical Arfin,” he said, as he straddled one of Arafinwë’s thighs and Arafinwë looked up at him with bright, eager eyes. “I hope you know that your tastes are an absurdity.”

“I do,” said Arafinwë, and hooked his fingers into Fëanáro’s belt. “There is an absurdity above me, right now, and if he does not stop teasing and get down to the business for which he is here, I will have to do him damage.”

Fëanáro shook his head sadly, even as he pulled his tunic off over his head. Making Arafinwë want and yearn as much as he had earlier was such a delicious interlude he could almost allow himself patience to enjoy it. “Threats do not become such lips,” he said, and touched them with a calloused thumb. “Nor such a tongue.”

Arafinwë did not answer, but stared up at him as he deliberately took Fëanáro’s thumb into his mouth, and ran his tongue against the pad.

“Good,” Fëanáro breathed. “That is a better use for it.”

Arafinwë closed his lips around Fëanáro’s thumb and sucked, his tongue still pressing against it, and Fëanáro felt the heat coil, needy and insistent, in his low belly. He rocked his hips forward, against Arafinwë’s thigh, and Arafinwë spread his own legs wider apart. He still wore his robes, though they were pushed up almost to his waist, and the evidence of his arousal was clear amidst the twisted silks. Fëanáro used his free hand to knead up along Arafinwë’s thigh towards his groin, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, and the slightest edge of teeth against his thumb. Arafinwë canted his hips, seeking, and Fëanáro smiled his dangerous smile, and refused to give him what he wanted.

“All in white,” he said musingly, as if continuing his earlier comments about Arafinwë’s bedding. “Terribly impractical. So easy to stain…” He slipped a hand beneath Arafinwë’s robes and let a fingernail drag sharp against the soft skin of his inner thigh, nearly enough to break the skin. Arafinwë gasped and sank his teeth into Fëanáro’s thumb, and the sensation went straight to the center of Fëanáro’s own arousal. He ignored it, for now, intent on the subtly shifting body beneath him. “So easy to leave evidence should I make you bleed.” He bent low, still not touching Arafinwë where he most desired it, exhaling against his brother’s lips as he dragged his thumb from his mouth and pressed it wet against Arafinwë’s throat.

“Fëanáro,” Arafinwë murmured, and Fëanáro ground down against him at the deep murmur of his voice. “You are insufferable.”

“Am I? And yet still you suffer me, brat.” Fëanáro laughed and straightened up, starting to undo Arafinwë’s many buttons. “Get yourself bare, and quick, before I remember I promised to slap you this afternoon.”

Arafinwë sat up, his half unbuttoned robes slipping over one shoulder, and Fëanáro watched him, smirking, waiting to see him strip. But instead Arafinwë grabbed Fëanáro around the waist in a surprisingly strong arm, and jerked Fëanáro fully into his lap. “Ever you threaten and do not woo,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to Fëanáro’s neck. “Ever you insult and do not cozen, why, _why_ do I still come back to you, time and again?”

“Because you do not want to be wooed,” said Fëanáro, twisting experimentally in Arafinwë’s arms, but Arafinwë only tightened his grip. “You do not want to be cozened – such treatment you can get from anyone else, but _not from me_.” He growled it, starting to lose patience again. He could not move against Arafinwë as he wished, held like this. “You shall not find such treatment in my hands _._ ” He tried to find Arafinwë’s mouth then, to push his tongue past Arafinwë’s teeth, but a hand knotted in his hair, holding him back.

“Perhaps _I_ wish to woo,” said Arafinwë, very softly against his ear. The hand tightened in his hair, and Fëanáro stilled. “Perhaps I wish to breathe endearments against your skin and worship your beauty.” He pulled lightly at Fëanáro’s hair, and Fëanáro let out a hiss of pain and approval. “To tell you how dear I hold you, how much I treasure you.” He spoke with utter tenderness, his voice impossibly gentle, but his fingers twisted sharply in Fëanáro’s hair, and Fëanáro gasped at the sting against his scalp.

“Then tell me,” he gritted out, and Arafinwë buried his face against Fëanáro’s neck and whispered words of such sweetness that Fëanáro couldn’t bear it, and fought him, and Arafinwë pulled his hair and dug fingernails into his skin so that blood dotted the sheets as Fëanáro had threatened.

“My beauty, my beauty, my love,” whispered Arafinwë, still tender, still soft, despite the bite of nails, until Fëanáro could stand it no longer and shoved him back so hard that Arafinwë fell back with several long, dark hairs still twined around his fingers. Fëanáro ignored the sting, and held Arafinwë down with one hand as he impatiently tore the rest of his robes from him. Barely waiting for Arafinwë to be totally naked, he planted one strong hand on Arafinwë’s chest and the other on his hip, and bent low to satisfy the urge that had plagued him since they stood by the lake. He took Arafinwë into his mouth, first with light, teasing licks at the head of his cock, and then quickly taking him deeper. Fëanáro was not known for his patience, Fëanáro was not known for doing anything by half, and Fëanáro – well, if he was not known for his skill in this particular arena, that was only because those who knew did not tell.

He took Arafinwë as deep as could into his mouth, tongue working hungrily at the underside of his cock, and Arafinwë dug his heels into the mattress and his fingers into the sheets and threw his head back, gasping.

Fëanáro kept his eyes open, fixed on the picture before him, the long pale body trembling with pleasure and an attempt to keep from moving deeper into Fëanáro’s mouth. He pulled back slightly to lave the head once more, and Arafinwë whimpered, spreading his knees wider still and this time giving in to the temptation to raise his hips, seeking more. Fëanáro laughed, pleased, and let his teeth drag teasingly against the shaft, making Arafinwë twitch and cry out.

“Oh, oh, brother, _please –_ ”

Fëanáro listened to him beg for a while longer, exploring his cock and tasting the salt that gathered at its tip, and then he pulled back, licking his lips, his smile very self-satisfied.

“That pleases you, does it?” he purred, and slid his way up Arafinwë’s long body. He settled himself against the dip of Arafinwë’s pelvis, his own erection, freed from the laces of his breeches, pressing against Arafinwë’s slick cock.

“Yes.” Arafinwë shuddered, and wound his fingers into Fëanáro’s hair. “Yes. Though you stopped rather sooner than I would have liked.”

“My apologies.” But Fëanáro mouthed at the lobe of Arafinwë’s ear, unrepentant.

“And you did not even object to me calling you brother.” Arafinwë’s fingers stroked to the back of Fëanáro’s neck, sweeping his hair to the side. “I half expected you to pull back and correct me. Would you do as much were you with Nolofinwë, I wonder?”

“If Nolofinwë was sucking my cock the way I was just sucking yours,” Fëanáro said. “He could call me whatever he liked. But why bring him up now? The thought of your damn brother kills desire.”

“Liar,” said Arafinwë, rolling his hips to demonstrate the enduring vigor of Fëanáro’s arousal. “Sometimes I think your hatred of him stirs your blood as much as love of me does…”

“Love of you? How presumptuous you are, egotist.” Fëanáro sucked a mark onto Arafinwë’s throat to match the one he’d left there earlier. “I tolerate you, is all, because of what you permit me with your body.”

“Whatever you say,” said Arafinwë fondly, and stroked his fingers over Fëanáro’s temples. “But I notice you do not deny my supposition that you burn as much with desire as with hatred of Nolo- ”

“How can I stop you from speaking such idiocies?” growled Fëanáro, and answered his own question by kissing Arafinwë silent. Arafinwë accepted his tongue willingly, and Fëanáro took Arafinwë’s chin between his fingers and tipped his head back so he could more effectively access his brother’s mouth. When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily, and Arafinwë’s eyes were alight once more.

“Still no denial, I note.”

Fëanáro rolled his eyes, and grabbed Arafinwë by the hips to turn him over. “You are growing as obsessive as they call me,” he said, into Arafinwë’s ear, and laid a strong hand over his mouth before he could respond.

Impatient now, he pushed his breeches down over his hips and kicked free of them, settling himself bare against Arafinwë’s backside with a groan of satisfaction. He spat on his fingers, about to bring them down between Arafinwë’s thighs, but Arafinwë halted him, a small vial of oil finding its way from his fingers to Fëanáro’s.

“And where did you conjure this from?”

“I started keeping it under my pillow,” said Arafinwë, “after the last two times you came to me in the night.”

Fëanáro pulled the stopper from the vial with his teeth and tipped it to allow swiftly warming oil to drizzle between Arafinwë’s buttocks. His fingers followed, and soon Arafinwë was pressing back against him, insistently.

“I appreciate the ease of the oil,” he whispered, turning his head for Fëanáro to kiss his jaw, “but you know I do not like to be overly prepared. Do it.”

“It is your pain, not mine,” said Fëanáro, but he went slowly as he pressed himself against Arafinwë’s entrance. “Ai, _brother_. You are so tight it is sinful.” He groaned, and pressed his forehead to the back of Arafinwë’s neck as he continued to slide in.

“There is much about this that is sinful,” said Arafinwë, as he hooked a leg behind Fëanáro’s thighs and pressed himself back, his breath catching as he did so. “But if you do not speed up, I shall damn you myself.” It was the closest he had come so far to speaking with true impatience, and Fëanáro grinned and laid a hand over Arafinwë’s hip, tracing it to its source and wrapping his fingers around him. His other hand he returned to Arafinwë’s mouth, stifling his words and his moan at Fëanáro’s touch. He began to move in earnest now, and Arafinwë sucked his fingers into his mouth, sliding his tongue against them in a way that made Fëanáro snap his hips forward vengefully.

“So tight, so tight,” he whispered, panting at Arafinwë’s throat. “You should not be allowed to feel this good.”

Arafinwë moaned, unable to speak around Fëanáro’s fingers. He tightened around Fëanáro’s cock, his long legs parting farther on the mattress so that Fëanáro could sink even deeper into him. He rocked his hips back into Fëanáro’s thrusts, and Fëanáro felt himself starting to lose control. His movements became less measured, more frantic, and he could feel something vibrate in Arafinwë’s throat that might have been a low laugh, or a purr of satisfaction.

Arafinwë was too good at this, Fëanáro thought, in the last moments before pleasure took him over entirely. And he knows it, entirely too well.

Often when they came together, Fëanáro would finish by spending himself on Arafinwë’s thigh, or his back – he enjoyed the sight of that fair skin, sullied. But this time, overcome by Arafinwë’s tight heat, pulled close by Arafinwë’s hand on his hip, urging him deeper, Fëanáro did not feel he could bring himself to pull out. He felt himself losing control far quicker than usual; so quickly, in fact, that he knew he would succumb before Arafinwë, unable to stop his rapidly approaching climax. He groaned, deep in his chest, and thrust deep, his hips pressed squarely to the curve of Arafinwë’s ass, and Arafinwë gasped as Fëanáro throbbed within him.

Fëanáro shuddered and came, pulsing long and hot into Arafinwë’s body, his hand tightening on Arafinwë’s cock, and Arafinwë bit his lip until he drew blood, simultaneously trying to arch forward into Fëanáro’s hand and move his hips back to take more of Fëanáro into him.

“Shameless, needy, _beg for me_ ,” whispered Fëanáro, voice broken by his own pleasure, and Arafinwë choked out, _“Curufinwë_ ,” before Fëanáro gave the last thrust of his orgasm and stroked his thumb over the head of Arafinwë’s cock at the same time.

Arafinwë came with a low, wrecked moan that Fëanáro caught between his lips, twisting Arafinwë’s head to the side for a sloppy kiss. He kept his hand wrapped around Arafinwë’s cock until his brother stopped shaking, and then dropped back to the bed, pulling Arafinwë with him.

“Usually you pull out, at the end,” murmured Arafinwë, head sinking to the pillows.

Fëanáro spooned up behind him, burying his face in that warm, pale hair, letting his lips brush Arafinwë’s shoulder. He locked his arm more firmly around Arafinwë’s chest, reluctant to let him go, and even now did not pull out from between his brother’s buttocks, warm lassitude filling him and making him want to stay as close as possible for as long as possible.

“Yes, well,” he mumbled, against Arafinwë’s sweat-cooled skin, tongue darting out to taste it. “I know how you hate mess.”

Arafinwë let out a huff of laughter, shaking with amusement in Fëanáro’s arms. Fëanáro winced, oversensitive, as he shifted within Arafinwë.

“Hush, hold still.”

“You are ever so thoughtful,” said Arafinwë, smiling as he tucked himself back against Fëanáro’s chest, rubbing his cheek briefly against the arm stretched out beneath his neck. “I can always count on you, my dear, to selflessly spill within me rather than _dare_ risk the sheets.”

“Post-coital sarcasm is not an attractive quality in you,” muttered Fëanáro, sleepily, and reached down to squeeze Arafinwë’s thigh possessively.

“Noted. I appreciate the input. I am _very_ concerned about you finding me unattractive, of course, as your vigorous actions have not proven satisfactorily otherwise.”

“Smugness isn’t very attractive either,” said Fëanáro, his eyes closed, and he felt Arafinwë move in his arms. He rolled over, dragging a faint sigh from Fëanáro, and wrapped his arms around Fëanáro’s neck.

“So. Do you still wish to bring down the wroth of the Valar on my head?”

“What?”

Arafinwë kissed him, maddeningly alert next to Fëanáro’s boneless indolence. “You first came to me today calling down the curse of the mighty upon all of my birth, and threatening physical violence besides.”

“Keep talking,” muttered Fëanáro. “I haven’t yet ruled it out.”

But Arafinwë just kissed him again, and Fëanáro couldn’t help but respond, his hands drifting to Arafinwë’s waist and pulling him close. He wrapped his brother into his arms and Arafinwë draped his long legs over him, their skin sticking together in satisfying ways from the heat of their bodies. Fëanáro allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of holding someone in his arms, as Arafinwë nuzzled against him and laid light, teasing kisses to his lips. Fëanáro brushed the long fall of Arafinwë’s hair back over his shoulder so that his bare skin was exposed to the air. The breeze coming through the windows stirred goose bumps onto Arafinwë’s skin and Fëanáro rubbed his thumb against them, almost abstractedly, tempted to dip his head and run his tongue against the pebbled surface. He was too lazy to move much, however, and instead contented himself with kissing Arafinwë for a good while longer, until he was half lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his brother’s breaths, and the stroke of his brother’s fingers over his shoulder blades.

Arafinwë did not let him drowse off, however, scraping his nails lightly down Fëanáro’s back until Fëanáro stirred and blinked.

“They say,” whispered Arafinwë, their lips still so close that Fëanáro felt rather than heard the words, “they say that your flame is inextinguishable.”

“What’s your point?” Fëanáro grunted as Arafinwë rolled over on top of him.

“I wish to test the theory.”

“Do you plan on dousing me with water or sand? Honestly, Arfin, what nonsense are you babbling about now?” Fëanáro broke off with a curse as Arafinwë slid a hand down his torso and cupped his sex. “ _Ingoldo_.”

“Unquenchable flame,” whispered Arafinwë. “Insatiable Fëanáro. Is it true?” He slid a finger behind Fëanáro’s balls, and Fëanáro jerked hard against him. “I think it needs to be thoroughly tested, by a thoughtful researcher. But this time, it is _my_ turn to test _you_.”

“Valar – ” Fëanáro began, and then cried out despite himself as Arafinwë did something devilish with one long finger. “Valar _damn_ all children of Indis.” He groaned, and let his head drop back as Arafinwë smiled, beautiful and serene. “And damn this one in particular.”

“Then let us be damned together, dear heart,” said Arafinwë, and Fëanáro’s flame rose once more.  

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. More of Silje's spectacular art [here](http://cygnete.tumblr.com/).


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